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UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/ourgirlspoemsinpOOchri 


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REVERIE 


I 


OUR  GIRLS 


POEMS  IN  PRAISE  OF 
THE  AMERICAN  GIRL 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

HOWARD  CHANDLER  CHRISTY 


NEW  YORK 
MOFFAT,  YARD  &  COMPANY 

1907 


rv^ 


Title.  Author. 

Afterthought,   An Samuel  Minturn  Peck 

Alicia's   Bonnet Elisabeth  Pullen 

American  Girl,  An Brander  Matthews 

American  Girl,  The -S".  P.  P 

Amy   James  Matthew  Lcga 

Anne    Licettc  Woodworth  Reese 

At  the  Ball Samuel  Minturn  Peck 

Auf  Wiedersehen Anonymous  

Ballad  of  Dorothy,  A Williams  Literary  Mo 

Ballade  of  Justification Guy  Wetmore  Caryll 

Beauty  of  B allston,  The /.  G.  Saxe 

Behind  Her  Fan Prank  Dempster  Sherman 

Behold  the  Deeds H.  C.  Bunncr 

Bessie  Brown,  M.  D Samuel  Minturn  Peck 

Bit  of  Human  Nature,  A Virginia  University  Maga. 

Chansonnette    Makio   

Chaperon,    The H.  C.  Bunner 

Circe    Columbia   Spectator 

Common  Sense -James  T.  Fields 

Conceits   Arlo  Bates 

Confession   and   Avoidance Cornell  Magazine 

Conquest  Cornell    Widow 

Corsage  Bouquet,  A Anonymous  . . . 

Could  She  Have  Guessed Elaine  Goodale 

Cup  and  Saucer  Episode,  A Harvard  Advocate 

Difference,   The H.  K.  Webster 

Dimple  on  Her  Cheek,  The Anonymous  . . . 

Divine  Awe George  Edward   Woodberr. 

VII 


CONTENTS— continued 
Title.  Author.  Page. 

Dollie    Samuel    Minturn    Peck 137 

Edith    William  Ellery  Channing 

Eulalie   Anonymous 

Eve's   Daughter E.    R.    Sill . 

Faint    Heart Dartmouth  Literary  Monthly . 

Fair  Attorney,  A Samuel  Minturn  Peck. 

"Fin  de  siecle"  Girl,  A Concordiensis  

Florence  Vane Philip  P.  Cooke 

Football  Girl,  The Raymond  W.  Walker. 

Friends   Guy  Wetmore  Caryll 152 

Gertrude  Yale  Record 146 

Happiness    Thomas  L.  Masson 157 

Helen   Susan  Coolidge 142 

Her  China  Cup Frank  Dempster  Sherman. . .  157 

Her  Reason James  P.  Sawyer 158 

Humble  Romance,  A Vassar  Miscellany 34 

I  Dream  of  Flo Yale  Courant 49 

In  Thy  Clear  Eyes A rlo   Bates 36 

Jacqueminot   Wesleyan  Literary  Monthly . .  7 

Jeannie   Marsh George  P.  Morris 113 

Kiss  in  the  Rain,  A Samuel  Minturn  Peck 33 

Kiss,  The Thomas  L.  Masson 145 

Knot  of  Blue,  A Samuel  Minturn  Peck 14 

LAmour,  LAmour Guy   Wetmore  Caryll 35 

Lass  With  Laughing  Eyes,  The Samuel  Minturn  Peck 52 

Lent .Yale  Record 6 

Lenten  Maid,  The Yale  Record 24 

Love  in  a  Cottage N.  P.  Willis 72 

Samuel    Minturn   Peck 37 

VIII 


CONTENTS— continued 

Title.  Author. 

Madam  Hickory Wilbur  Larrcmore . 

Maud  Mullee /.  G.  Whittier 

My  Lady  on  the  Links A.  H.  Gilbert 

My   Love James  Russell  Lowell. 

My  Mistake E.  P.  G 

My  Playmate /.   G.    Whittier 

My  Sweetheart Samuel  Mintum  Peck . 

O,  Fairest  of  the  Rural  Maids W.  C.  Bryant 

O  Lady  Mine Clinton   Scollard . 

Of  One  Who  Neither  Sees  Nor  Hears.  .R.  W.  Gilder 120 

On  A  Summer  Evening Thomas  L.  Masson 45 

On  Newport  Beach H.  C.  Bunner 25 

On  Some  Butter  Cups Frank  Dempster  Sherman. ...   1'44 

One   Saturday Anna  Douglas  Robinson 138 

Portrait    A Trinity   Tablet 127 

Portrait,   The Southern  Collegian 47 

Prof.'s  Little  Girl,  The Charles  Kellogg  Field 66 

Rambling  Rhyme  of  Dorothy,  A Arthur  C.  Train 15 

Ready  for  the  Ride,  1795 H.  C.  Bunner 59 

Rhyme  for  Priscilla Frank  Dempster  Sherman. . ..  134 

Rose  and  the  Thorn,  The Paul  H.  Hayne 46 

Seaside  Flirtation,  A Samuel  Mintum  Peck 79 

Serenade,  A E.    C.    Pinckney. 

She  is  Not  Born  of  High  Degree Samuel  Mintum  Peck 60 

She  Sayeth  No Bertrand  A.   Smalley 55 

She  Was  A  Beauty Anonymous  11 

Skater  Belle,  The Samuel  Mintum  Peck 82 

Society  Martyr,  A Brown  Magazine 42 

Soul's   Kiss,  The Welleslcy  Magazine . 

IX 


CONTENTS— continued 
Title.  Author.  Page. 

Spirit  of  Summer,  The 5.  C.  Kenyon 151 

Sub  Rosa Brander  Matthews   20 

Summer  Girl,  The Dartmouth  Literary  Monthly.     89 

Summer  Girl,  The Yale  Record 12 

That  Day  You  Came L.   W.  Reese 54 

Then  and  Now Guy  IVetmore  Caryll 56 

Thorn  That  Guards,  The Cornell  Era 39 

TlLDY  in  the  Choir IVesleyan  Literary  Monthly. .     21 

To  A  June  Breeze H.  C.  Bunner 

To  Lillian's  First  Gray  Hair Samuel  Minturn  Peck. 

To  Ruby  Lips The  Tech 

To  Sally John    Quincy  Adams 31 

Toujours  Amour E.   C.  Stedman 159 

Unattainable,  The Harry  Romaine 147 

Under  the  Flash  of  Tapers  Bright Samuel  Minturn  Peck 74 

Under  the  Mistletoe Anonymous   128 

Under  the  Mistletoe George  F.  Shults 133 

Unexpected,  The Frank  Roe  Batchcldcr 18 

Upon  the  Stair  I  See  My  Lady  Stand Clinton  Scollard 75 

Waban  Ripple,  A Cap  and  Gown 127 

Wanderlovers,  The Richard  Hovey 28 

Whenas  In  Silk Harvard  Lampoon 84 

When  Helen  Comes John  Jerome  Rooney 61 

When  Margaret  Laughs Williams  Literary  Monthly. .     48 

Which?  Brunonian   85 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

Reverie    Frontispiece 

Title  Illustration 1 

An  American  Girl 4 

The  Summer  Girl 12 

Eyes  Where  Cupid  Has  Made  His  Lair 20 

Sailing   Close 28 

She  Held  A  Deep  Red  Rose 38 

Our  Navy  Girl 44 

She  Is  Not  Born  of  High  Degree 60 

If  Sea  Spray  Kiss  Her  Face 66 

Speeding  the  Coming  Guest 76 

A  Dainty  Hand 90 

Idleness    1 00 

At  the  Play 1 22 

Dollie 1  38 

My  Lady  on  the  Links 148 

Afternoon  Tea 156 

The  Ring 1 60 


AN  AMERICAN  GIRL. 

She's  had  a  Vassar  education, 

And  points  with  pride  to  her  degrees; 

She's  studied  household  decoration; 
She  knows  a  dado  from  a  frieze, 
And  tells  Corots  from  Boldonis; 

A  Jacquemart  etching,  or  a  Haden, 

A  Whistler,  too,  perchance  might  please 

A  free  and  frank  young  Yankee  maiden. 

She  does  not  care  for  meditation; 

Within  her  bonnet  are  no  bees ; 
She  has  a  gentle  animation, 

She  joins  in  singing  simple  glees. 

She  tries  no  trills,  no  rivalries 
With  Lucca  (now  Baronin  Raden), 

With  Nilsson  or  with  Gerster;  she's 
A  frank  and  free  young  Yankee  maiden. 


I'm  blessed  above  the  whole  creation, 

Far,  far  above  all  other  he's; 
I  ask  you  for  congratulation 

On  this  the  best  of  jubilees: 

I  go  with  her  across  the  seas 
Unto  what  Poe  would  call  an  Aiden, — 

I  hope  no  serpent's  there  to  tease 
A  frank  and  free  young  Yankee  maiden 

ENVOY. 

Princes,  to  you  the  western  breeze 
Bears  many  a  ship  and  heavy  laden. 

What  is  the  best  we  send  in  these? 

A  free  and  frank  young  Yankee  maiden. 

Brander  Matthews. 


AN  AMERICAN  GIRL 


IV 
'Tis  only  the  wave  of  a  feather  fan, 

That  ruffles  the  creamy  lace, 
Loose  gathered  about  the  bosom  fair. 

By  rhinestones  held  in  place. 


V 
'Tis  only  the  toe  of  a  high-heeled  shoe. 

With  the  glimpse  of  a  color  above — 
A  stocking  tinted  a  faint  sky-blue, 

The  shade  that  lovers  love. 


'Tis  only  a  woman — a  woman,  that's  all, 

And,  as  only  a  woman  can, 
Bringing  a  heart  to  her  beck  and  call 

By  waving  her  feather  fan. 


'Tis  only  a  woman,  and  I — 'twere  best 

To  forget  that  waving  fan. 
'he  only  a  woman — you  know  the  restj 
But  I  am  only  a  man. 

Virginia  University  Magafone: 


JACQUEMINOT. 


Are    you    filled   with    wonder,    Jacqueminot 
Do  you  think  me  mad  that  I  kiss  you  so? 
If  a  rose  could  only  its  thoughts  express, 
I'd  find  you  mocking,  I  more  than  guess; 
And  yet  if  you  vow  me  a  fond  old  fool, 
Just  think  if  your  own  fine  pulse  was  cool 
When  you  lay  in  her  tresses  an  hour  ago, 
Jacqueminot. 


This  pale,  proud  girl,  you  must  understand. 
Held  all  my  fate  in  her  small  white  hand, 
And  when  I  asked  her  to  be  my  bride, 
She  wanted  a  day  to  think — decide ; 
And  I  asked,  if  her  answer  were  no,  she'd  wear 
A  Marshal  Niel  to  the  ball  in  her  hair, 
But  if  'twere  pes,  she  would  tell  me  so 
By  a  Jacqueminot. 


My  heart  found  heaven,  I  had  seen  my  sign, 
And  after  the  dance  I  knew  her  mine, 
And  I  plucked  you  out  of  her  warm,  soft  hair, 
As  her  stately  pride  stood  trembling  there, 
And  I  felt  in  the  dark  for  her  lips  to  kiss, 
And  I  pressed  them  close  to  my  own  like  Ihis, 
And  I  held  her  cheek  to  my  own  cheek — so, 
Jacqueminot ! 

Wesleyan  Literary  Monthly 


\Z 


IS 


BALLADE  OF  JUSTIFICATION. 

A  jingle  of  bells  and  a  crunch  of  snow, 
Skies  that  are  clear  as  the  month  of  May, 

Winds  that  merrily,  briskly  blow, 
A  pretty  girl  and  a  cozy  sleigh, 
Eyes  that  are  bright  and  laughter  gay, 

All  that  favors  Dan  Cupid's  art; 

I  was  but  twenty.     What  can  you  say 

If  I  confess  I  lost  my  heart? 

What  if  I  answered  in  whispers  low. 

Begged  that  she  would  not  say  me  nay. 
Asked  if  my  love  she  did  not  know. 

What  if  I  did?     Who  blames  me,  pray? 

Suppose  she  blushed.     'Tis  the  proper  way 
For  lovely  maidens  to  play  their  part. 

Does  it  seem  too  much  for  a  blush  to  pay 
If  I  confess  I  lost  my  heart? 

What  if  I  drove  extremely  slow, 

Was  there  not  cause  enough  to  stay? 
Such  opportunities  do  not  grow 

Right  in  one's  pathway  every  day ; 

Cupid  I  dared  not  disobey. 
If  he  saw  fit  to  cast  his  dart; 

Is  it  a  thing  to  cause  dismay 
If  I  confess  I  lost  my  heart? 

ENVOY. 
What  if  I  kissed  her?     Jealous  they 

Who  scoff  at  buyers  in  true  love's  mart. 
Who  can  my  sound  good  sense  gainsay 

If  I  confess  I  lost  my  heart? 

Guy  Wetmore  Carryl. 


10 


1$        '.  -A 

MIS'  *****  ^^r^~^ " 

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4     ^ 

^*S' 

MPYH.CHT    |M    UOfF„     Y„c 

THE  SUMMER  GIRL 


A  KNOT  OF  BLUE. 
(For  the  Boys  of  Yale.) 

She  hath  no  gems  of  lustre  bright 

To  sparkle  in  her  hair; 
No  need  hath  she  of  borrowed  light 

To  make  her  beauty  fair. 
Upon  her  shining  locks  afloat 

Are  daisies  wet  with  dew, 
And  peeping  from  her  lissome  throat 
A  little  knot  of  blue. 


A  dainty  knot  of  blue, 
A  ribbon  blithe  of  hue, 
It  fills  my  dreams  with  sunny  gleams, — 
That  little  knot  of  blue. 


I  met  her  down  the  shadowed  lane, 

Beneath  the  apple  tree, 
The  balmy  blossoms  fell  like  rain 

Upon  my  Love  and  me ; 
And  what  I  said,  or  what  I  did. 

That  morn,  I  never  knew, 
But  to  my  breast  there  came  and  hid 
A  little  knot  of  blue. 


A  little  knot  of  blue, 
A  love-knot  strong  and  true, 
'Twill  hold  my  heart  till  life  shall  part 
That  little  knot  of  blue. 


S.  M.  Peck 


A  RAMBLING  RHYME  OF 
DOROTHY. 


When  ye  Crocufs  fhews  his  heade 
&  ye  Wyndes  of  Marche  have  flede. 
Springe  doth  come,  and  happylye 
Then  I  thinke  of 
Dorothy. 


Haycockes  fragrante  in  ye  fun 
Give  me  refte  when  tafkes  are  done 
Summer's  here,  &  merrylye 
Then  I  dreame  of 
Dorothy. 


Scarlette  leaves  &  heapinge  binne; 
Cyder,  ye  cool  Tankard  in; 

Autumn's  come.     Righte  jollylye 
Then  I  drinke  to 
Dorothy. 


When  ye  Northe  Wynde  fweeps  ye  fnowe 
&  Icyclles  hange  all  belowe, 

Then,  for  foothe,  Olde  Winter,  he 
Letts  me  dance  with 
Dorothy ! 


THE  UNEXPECTED. 

She  was  the  reigning  belle! 
Straightway  in  love  I  fell; 
Potent  became  the  spell — 

Too  plain  for  masking. 
Then  for  a  time  I  wooed — 
For  her  sweet  favour  sued, 
Till  I'd  my  courage  screwed 

Up  to  the  "asking." 

Where  to  the  music's  beat 
Tripped  the  untiring  feet 

Of  the  gay  dancer, 
Gently  I  led  my  fair 
Partner,  so  debonair, 
Told  her  the  whole,  and  there 

Waited  her  answer. 


Sweet  was  the  flowers'  perfume 
Weird  the  enshadowing  gloom ; 
From  the  gay,  lighted  room, 

Sweet  strains  came  faintly. 
Turning,  she  smiled  and  blushed, 
Murmured  surprise,  and  flushed, 
Then,  in  the  silence  hushed, 

Answered  me  quaintly. 

Doubtless  you  think  she  said, 
When  she  had  raised  her  head, 
That  which  all  lovers  dread: 

"She'd  be  my  sister!" 
That's  where  you've  made  a  guess 
Wrong,  as  you  must  confess ; 
For  she  said  softly: — "Yes!" 

Yes!  and  I  kissed  her! 

Frank  Roe  Batchelder. 


COMMON  SENSE. 


She  came  among  the  gathering  crowd, 
A  maiden  fair,  without  pretence. 
And  when  they  asked  her  humble  name, 
She  whispered  mildly,  "Common  Sense. 


Her  modest  garb  drew  every  eye. 
Her  ample  cloak,  her  shoes  of  leather; 
And,  when  they  sneered,  she  simply  said 
"I  dress  according  to  the  weather." 


They  argued  long,  and  reasoned  loud. 
In  dubious  Hindoo  phrase  mysterious. 
While  she,  poor  child,  could  not  divine 
Why  girls  so  young  should  be  so  serious. 


They  knew  the  length  of  Plato's  beard 
And  how  the  scholars  wrote  in  Saturn: 
She  studied  authors  not  so  deep, 
And  took  the  Bible  for  her  pattern. 


And  so  she  said,  "Excuse  me,  friends, 
I  find  all  have  their  proper  places, 
And  Common  Sense  should  stay  at  home 
With  cheerful  hearts  and  smiling  faces.' 

James  T.  Fields 


19 


SUB  ROSA. 

Under  the  rows  of  gas-jets  bright, 
Bathed  in  a  blazing  river  of  light, 
A  regal  beauty  sits;  above  her 
The  butterflies  of  fashion  hover, 
And  burn  their  wings,  and  take  to  flight, 


Mark  you  her  pure  complexion, — white 
Though  flush  may  follow  flush?     Despite 
Her  blush,  the  lily  I  discover 
Under  the  rose. 


All  compliments  to  her  are  trite; 

She  has  adorers  left  and  right; 
And  I  confess,  here,  under  cover 
Of  secrecy,  I  too — I  love  her! 

say  naught;  she  knows  it  not.     'Tis  quite 
Under  the  rose. 


Brander  Matthews. 


TTf!  L  Itn&ty 


EYES  WHERE  CUPID  HAS  MADE  HIS  LAIR 


How  we  sang — for  /  was  there. 
Occupied  a  singer's  chair 
Next  to — well,  no  prouder  man 
Ever  lifts  the  bass,  nor  can, 
Sometimes  held  the  self-same  book, 
(How  my  nervous  fingers  shook!) 
Sometimes — wretch — while  still  the  air 
Echoed  to  the  parson's  prayer, 
I  would  whisper  in  her  ear 
What  she  could  not  help  but  hear. 
Once,  I  told  her  my  desire. 
(Tildy  promised  in  the  choir.) 


IV 

Well,  those  days  are  past,  and  now 
Come  gray  hairs,  and  yet  somehow 
I  can't  think  those  years  have  fled — 
Still  those  roadways  know  my  tread, 
Still  I  climb  that  old  pine  stair. 
Sit  upon  the  stiff-backed  chair, 
Stealing  glances  toward  my  left 
Till  her  eyes  repay  the  theft; 
Death's  a  dream  and  Time's  a  liar — 
Tildy  still  is  in  the  choir. 


22 


5S 


V 

Come,  Matilda  number  two, 
Fin  de  Steele  maiden  you! 
Wonder  if  you'd  like  to  see 
Her  I  loved  in  fifty-three? 
Yes?     All  right,  then  go  and  find 
Mother's  picture — "Papa!" — Mind! 
She  and  I  were  married.     You 
Were  our  youngest.     Now  you,  too, 
Raise  the  same  old  anthems  till 
All  the  church  is  hushed  and  still 
With  a  single  soul  to  hear. 
Do  I  flatter?     Ah,  my  dear, 
Time  has  brought  my  last  desire — 
Tildy  still  is  in  the  choir! 

Wesleyan  Literary  Monthly. 


ANNE 

SUDBURY    MEETING-HOUSE,    1653 

Her  eyes  be  like  the  violets, 

Ablow  in  Sudbury  lane; 
When  she  doth  smile,  her  face  is  sweet 

As  blossoms  after  rain; 
With  grief  I  think  of  my  gray  hairs, 

And  wish  me  young  again. 


In  comes  she  through  the  dark  old  door 

Upon  this  Sabbath  day; 
And  she  doth  bring  the  tender  wind 

That  sings  in  bush  and  tree; 
And  hints  of  all  the  apple  boughs 

That  kissed  her  by  the  way. 


Our  parson  stands  up  straight  and  tall. 
For  our  dear  souls  to  pray, 

And  of  the  place  where  sinners  go 
Some  grewsome  things  doth  say : 

Now,  she  is  highest  Heaven  to  me; 
So  Hell  is  far  away. 


Most  stiff  and  still  the  good  folk  sit 
To  hear  the  sermon  through ; 

But  if  our  God  be  such  a  God, 
And  if  these  things  be  true. 

Why  did  He  make  her  then  so  fair. 
And  both  her  eyes  so  blue  ? 


A  flickering  light,  the  sun  creeps  in, 
And  finds  her  sitting  there; 

And  touches  soft  her  lilac  gown, 
And  soft  her  yellow  hair; 

I  look  across  to  that  old  pew, 

And  have  both  praise  and  prayer. 


Oh,  violets  in  Sudbury  lane. 

Amid  the  grasses  green, 
This  maid  who  stirs  ye  with  her  feet 

Is  far  more  fair,  I  ween! 
I  wonder  how  my  forty  years 

Look  by  her  sweet  sixteen ! 

LlZETTE  WOODWORTH   REESE 


- 


Down  the  world  with  Mama! 

That's  the  life  for  me! 

Wandering  with  the  wandering  wind. 

Vagabond  and  unconfined! 

Roving  with  the  roving  rain 

Its  unboundaried  domain! 

Kith  and  kin  of  wander-kind, 


Petrels  of  the  sea-drift! 
Swallows  of  the  lea ! 
Arabs  of  the  whole  wide  girth 
Of  the  wind-encircled  earth! 
In  all  climes  we  pitch  our  tents. 
Cronies  of  the  elements, 
With  the  secret  lords  of  birth 
Intimate  and  free. 


Ill 

All  the  seaboard  knows  us 
From  Fundy  to  the  Keys; 
Every  bend  and  every  creek 
Of  abundant  Chesapeake; 
Ardise  hills  and  Newport  cov 
And  the  far-off  orange  groves, 
Where  Floridian  oceans  break 
Tropic  tiger  seas. 


IS) 


VII 

Mama  with  the  wind's  will, 
Daughter  of  the  sea ! 
Mama  of  the  quick  disdain, 
Starting  at  the  dream  of  stain! 
At  a  smile  with  love  aglow, 
At  a  frown  a  statued  woe, 
Standing  pinnacled  in  pain 
Till  a  kiss  sets  free ! 


VIII 

Down  the  world  with  Marna, 
Daughter  of  the  fire! 
Marna  of  the  deathless  hope. 
Still  alert  to  win  new  scope 
Where  the  wings  of  life  may  spread 
For  a  flight  unhazarded ! 
Dreaming  of  the  speech  to  cope 
With  the  heart's  desire! 


Marna  of  the  far  quest 
After  the  divine ! 
Striving  ever  for  some  goal 
Past  the  blunder-god's  control! 
Dreaming  of  potential  years 
When  no  day  shall  dawn  in  fears! 
That's  the  Marna  of  my  soul. 
Wander-bride  of  mine! 

Richard  Hovey 


TO   SALLY 


The  man  in  righteousness  arrayed, 

A  pure  and  blameless  liver, 
Needs  not  the  keen  Toledo  blade, 

Nor  venom-freighted  quiver. 
What  though  he  wind  his  toilsome  way 

O'er  regions  wild  and  weary — 
Through  Zara's  burning  desert  stray, 

Or  Asia's  jungles  dreary: 


II 

What  though  he  plough  the  billowy  deep 

By  lunar  light,  or  solar, 
Meet  the  resistless  Simoon's  sweep, 

Or  iceberg  circumpolar! 
In  bog  or  quagmire  deep  and  dank 

His  foot  shall  never  settle; 
He  mounts  the  summit  of  Mont  Blanc, 

Or  Popocatapetl. 


Ill 

Or  Chimborazo's  breathless  height 

He  treads  o'er  burning  lava ; 
Or  snuffs  the  Bohan  Upas  blight, 

The  deathful  plant  of  Java. 
Through  every  peril  he  shall  pass, 

By  Virtue's  shield  protected; 
And  still  by  Truth's  unerring  glass 

His  path  shall  be  directed. 


31 


V^ 


A   HUMBLE   ROMANCE 

Her  ways  were  rather  frightened,  and  she  wasn't  much  to  see, 

She  wasn't  good  at  small  talk,  or  quick  at  repartee; 

Her  gown  was  somewhat  lacking  in  the  proper  cut  and  tone. 

And  it  wasn't  difficult  to  see  she'd  made  it  all  alone. 

So  the  gay  young  men  whose  notice  would  have  filled  her  with  delight 

Paid  very  small  attention  to  the  little  girl  in  white. 


He  couldn't  talk  the  theatre,  for  he  hadn't  time  to  go. 
And,  though  he  knew  that  hay  was  high,  and  butter  rather  low, 
He  couldn't  say  the  airy  things  that  other  men  rehearse, 
While  his  waltzing  was  so  rusty  that  he  didn't  dare  reverse. 
The  beauties  whom  he  sighed  for  were  most  frigidly  polite. 
So  perforce  he  came  and  sat  beside  the  little  girl  in  white. 


L' AMOUR.  L' AMOUR. 

We  catch  the  fleeting  perfume  of  roses 

As  the  evening  closes  the  golden  day, 
And  the  rhythmic  beating  of  waves  in  motion 

Comes  from  the  ocean  a  mile  away ; 
In  the  west  is  dying  the  sunset's  splendor, 

And  twilight  tender  enfolds  the  land; 
Where  the  tide  is  flying  a-down  the  river. 

And  the  grasses  quiver,  we  silent  stand. 


In  your  radiant  eyes  the  sun  unknowing 

Has  left  his  glowing  to  deeper  glow. 
And  your  tender  sighs  sound  far  more  sweetly 

Than  the  winds  that  fleetly  and  blithely  blow. 
And  first  all  shyly  your  small  hand  lingers 

With  trembling  fingers  within  my  own, 
The  blushes  slyly  and  swiftly  starting, 

And  then  departing  like  rose-leaves  blown. 


Alas,  the  envious  time  is  fleeting. 

But  your  heart  is  beating  in  time  with  mine. 
And  Cupid's  rhyme  rings  louder — clearer, 

As  I  draw  you  nearer,  my  love  divine ! 
In  the  twilight  dim  we  have  found  love's  tether 

And  are  linked  together,  no  more  to  part; 
While  the  white  stars  swing  in  a  maze  of  glory, 

To  hear  the  story  that  bares  your  heart. 

Guy  Wetmore  Carryl. 


Fair  Mabel  bids  me  sing  to-night ! 

Her  voice  is  low  and  pure ; 
Oh,  who  can  hear  that  voice  aright. 

And  yield  not  to  its  lure? 
Or  who  can  meet  those  peerless  eyes 

That  dim  the  vestal's  flame, 
And  never  feel  a  yearning  rise 

To  win  a  poet's  name? 


IV 

Fair  Mabel  bids  me  sing  to-night  I 

Ah,  could  my  numbers  chime 
With  Herrick's  grace,  or  vie  in  flight 

With  Waller's  courtly  rhyme; 
Oh,  I  would  voice  a  strain  to  match 

Her  every  lissome  wile; 
And  centuries  to  come  should  catch 

The  splendors  of  her  smile. 


Fair  Mabel  bids  me  sing  to-night 


The  Muse  hath  winged  a  silent  flight 

Beyond  the  silver  main. 
A  song  for  Mabel  were  too  sweet 

For  mortal  ears  to  know; 
I  only  catch  its  rhythmic  beat 

When  Dreamland  zephyrs  blow. 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck 


SHE  HELD  A  DEEP  RED  ROSE 


THE  THORN   THAT  GUARDS. 

Far  in  the  corner  on  the  stairs. 

We  were  sitting  together,  she  and  I ; 

The  murmuring  music  was  soft  and  low, 

Like  zephyrs  that  float  'neath  a  summer  sky 


She  held  in  her  fingers  a  deep  red  rose. 

And  was  plucking  the  petals,  one  by  one; 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  the  dreamy  light 
That  softens  the  west  when  the  day  is  done 


"Ah,  Mildred,  you  are  a  bud  yourself; 

Its  blushing  sweetness  is  wholly  thine; 
Cannot  you  let  me  press  the  flower, 

And  keep  it  forever,  and  call  it  mine?' 


The  fair  lips  trembled,  the  dimples  smiled. 
Her  eyes  told  clearly  that  I  had  lost ; 

But  my  heart  still  hoped,  till  she  gently  sighed, 
"You  forget  what  American  Beauties  cost." 

Cornell  Era 


Fair  Phyllis's  gold  lashes  demurely  cast  down. 
Her  face  in  sweet  doubt  'twixt  a  smile  and  a  frown, — 
A  venturesome  rosebud  o'ertopping  the  rest 
Now  lies  all  a-quiver  upon  her  white  breast, 

The  curves  of  her  neck 

Man's  vow  often  wreck, — 

She  has  the  whole  world  at  her  call  and  her  beck. 
So  how  can  a  bachelor  be  at  his  ease 
With  such  variant  emotions  at  afternoon  teas? 


Ill 

Behind  sheltering  palms,  safe  from  gossips'  sharp  gaze, 
Is  acted  in  mime  one  of  life's  dearest  plays, — 
Sweet  Bessie's  brown  eyes  raised  beseechingly  up. 
Her  lips  just  released  from  the  kiss  of  her  cup. 

And  Fred,  I  much  fear, 

From  small  sounds  that  I  hear, 

Is  as  bold  as  the  rim  of  her  cup, — and  as  near, — 
And  how  can  a  bachelor  be  at  his  ease 
With  such  sights  and  such  sounds  at  our  afternoon  teas? 


IV 

Shrewd  maters  watch  Phyllis  and  Bessie  and  Fred,- 
Each  smile  and  each  look  and  each  toss  of  the  head 
And  wonder  and  ponder  and  figure  and  scheme, 
While  fortune  and  fashion  'gainst  love  tip  the  beam. 
For  Bessie's  dark  locks 
And  Phyllis's  smart  frocks 
Are  but  snares  to  entrap  the  society  fox. 
Pray,  how  can  a  bachelor  be  at  his  ease 
With  such  artful  devices  at  afternoon  teas? 


Broivn  Magazine 


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^ 


w^ 


MY  SWEETHEART 

She  never  graces  crowded  balls 

Where  fevered  waltzes  thrill, 
She  never  dreams  of  marble  halls 

And  vassals  at  her  will ; 
She  dances  where  the  waterfalls 

Are  leaping  wild  and  free, 
Then  sinks  to  sleep  in  cottage  walls. 

And  only  dreams  of  me. 

She  never  glances  down  the  street 

From  faeton  or  coupe, 
She  does  not  know  the  mode  to  greet 

A  lover  at  the  play; 
But  from  the  loaded  hay  my  sweet 

Oft  sees  the  swallows  soar, 
And  well  she  knows  and  flies  to  meet 

My  footstep  at  the  door. 

So  let  the  statesman  pass  me  by 

And  win  the  noisy  game, 
And  let  the  soldier's  banner  fly 

Along  the  road  to  fame 
Wealth  too  may  go;  for  whar  care 

Beneath  this  dome  of  blue,  ij\ 
If  I  can  gaze  in  Maggie's  eyg^zr^ 

And  know  she  Iove^\rn6  &u^t% 

Samuel  Minturn 

1  ul  fw 
S3T 


A  ,    «CV-  Christ 


OUR  NAVY  GIRL 


u 


THE   ROSE  AND  THORN 

She's  loveliest  of  the  festal  throng 

In  delicate  form  and  Grecian  face, — 
A  beautiful,  incarnate  song, 

A  marvel  of  harmonious  grace, 
And  yet  I  know  the  truth  I  speak: 

From  those  gay  groups  she  stands  apart. 
A  rose  upon  her  tender  cheek, 

A  thorn  within  her  heart. 


Though  bright  her  eyes'  bewildering  gleams. 

Fair  tremulous  lips  and  shining  hair, 
A  something  born  of  mournful  dreams 

Breathes  round  her  sad  enchanted  air; 
No  blithesome  thoughts  at  hide  and  seek 

From  out  her  dimples  smiling  start; 
If  still  the  rose  be  on  her  cheek, 

A  thorn  is  in  her  heart. 


Young  lover,  tossed  'twixt  hope  and  fear. 

Your  whispered  vow  and  yearning  eyes 
Yon  marble  Clytie  pillared  near 

Could  move  as  soon  to  soft  replies; 
Or,  if  she  thrill  at  words  you  speak, 

Love's  memory  prompts  the  sudden  start; 
The  rose  has  paled  upon  her  cheek, 

The  thorn  has  pierced  her  heart. 

Paul  H.  Hayne 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

Pearls  and  patches,  powder  and  paint, 

This  was  her  grandmother  years  ago. 
Gown  and  coiffure  so  strange  and  quaint, 
Features  just  lacking  the  prim  of  the  saint. 

From  the  mischievous  dimple  that  lurks  below ; 

High-heeled  slippers  and  satin  bow, 
Red  lips  mocking  the  heart's  constraint, 
Free  from  passion,  devoid  of  taint — 

This  was  her  grandmother  years  ago. 


Straight  and  slender,  gallant  and  tall, 

Ah,  how  he  loved  her,  years  ago ! 
Just  so  she  looked  at  that  last  dim  ball, 
When,  in  a  niche  of  the  dusky  old  hall, 

They  whispered  together  soft  and  low. 

She  whispered  "yes,"  but  fate  answered  "no 
Some  one  listened  and  told  it  all. 
And  the  horses  might  wait  by  the  garden  wall, 

But  none  came  to  answer  him,  years  ago. 


So,  standing,  fresh  as  the  rose  on  her  breast. 

Smiling  down  on  me  here  below, 
Never  a  care  on  her  brow  impressed. 
Never  the  dream  of  a  thought  confessed 

Of  all  the  weariness  and  the  woe. 

Hearts  would  break  were  time  not  so  slow. 
Swept  are  life's  chambers;  comes  the  new  guest. 
Old  love,  or  new  love — which  was  the  best? 

For  this  was  her  grandmother  years  ago. 

Southern  Collegian. 


THE  AMERICAN  GIRL. 

The  German  may  sing  of  his  rosy-cheeked  lass, 
The  French  of  his  brilliant-eyed  pearl; 

But  ever  the  theme  of  my  praises  shall  be 
The  laughing  American  girl, 
Yes,  the  jolly  American  girl. 

She  laughs  at  her  sorrows,  she  laughs  at  her  joys, 
She  laughs  at  Dame  Fortune's  mad  whirl; 

And  laughing  will  meet  all  her  troubles  in  life, 
The  laughing  American  girl, 
Yes,  the  joyous  American  girl. 

You  say  she  can't  love  if  she  laughs  all  the  time? 

A  laugh  at  your  logic  she'll  hurl; 
She  loves  while  she  laughs  and  she  laughs  while  she  loves. 
The  laughing  American  girl, 
Oh,  the  laughing  American  girl ! 

S.  F.  P. 
SO 


\M-1 


Her  voice  is  like  the  mocking-bird's  upon  the  myrtle  tree, 
Her  eyes  are  like  the  summer  stars  that  frolic  on  the  sea ; 
Oh,  'tis  rapture  to  look  at  her;  and  it  sets  my  heart  abeat, 
Just  to  catch  the  pretty  patter  of  her  merry  little  feet. 


The  Fairies  spun  her  tresses  on  a  spindle  made  of  pearl, 
Then  dipped  them  in  the  summer  shine  and  put  them  up  in  curl ; 
And  when  I  see  them  flutter,  as  she  dances  in  the  wind, 
I  wish  I  were  a  butterfly,  or — something  of  the  kind. 

I  know  that  Cupid  did  it,  and  I  think  it  was  a  sin 
To  carve  a  cunning  dimple  in  the  middle  of  her  chin; 
For  it  is  a  crime  to  covet — so  says  the  Law  Divine — 
Yet  I  look  at  it,  and  love  it,  and  I  want  it  all  for  mine. 


She  whispers  that  she  loves  me !     Now  be  it  understood, 
The  tidings  are  delightful — I'd  believe  them  if  I  could; 
But  in  her  vocabulary  with  its  tantalizing  flow 
The  truth  will  often  tarry  far  behind  a  "yes,"  or  "no." 


She  smiles  at  me!     She  frowns  at  me!     She  knows  I  cannot  fly; 
O  Cupid  come  and  aid  me  with  an  arrow  on  the  sly, 
That  when  the  orange  bowers  are  blowing,  Eulalie 
May  wear  the  snowy  flowers  in  a  bridal  wreath  for  me! 


THAT    DAY    YOU   CAME 


Such  special  sweetness  was  about 

That  day  God  sent  you  here, 
I  knew  the  lavender  yas  out, 

And  it  was  mid  of  year. 

Their  common  way   the  great  winds  blew, 

The  ships  sailed  out  to  sea ; 
Yet  ere  that  day  was  spent  I  knew 

Mine  own  had  come  to  me. 


As  after  song  some  snatch  of  tune 
Lurks  still  in  grass  or  bough, 

So,  somewhat  of  the  end  o'  June 
Lurks  in  each  weather  now. 


The  young  year  sets  the  buds  astir, 
The  old  year  strips  the  trees; 

But  ever  in  my  lavender 
I  hear  the  brawling  bees. 

L.  W.  Reese 


\L 


SHE  SAYETH  "NO." 

She  sayeth  "No" — my  lady  fair — 
And  lightly  laughs  at  my  despair. 
She  quick  evades  my  least  caress. 
Nor  grants  to  me  a  single  tress 
From  out  her  wealth  of  golden  hair. 

Yet  to  her  cheeks  creeps  crimson  rare, 
When  I  for  her  my  love  declare. 

But  while  her  blue  eyes  tell  me  "Yes," 
She  sayeth  "No." 

The  maid  well  knows  I  would  not  dare 
Try  to  escape  her  gentle  snare. 
And,  if  I  really  must  confess, 
I  own  I  trust  her  lips  far  less 
Than  her  bLe  eyes  beyond  compare. 
She  sayeth  "No." 

Bertrand  A.  Smalley 


COULD  SHE   HAVE  GUESSED 

Could  she  have  guessed  my  coward  care? 
I  knew  her  foot  upon  the  stair, 

Her  figure  chained  my  inmost  eye; 

I  only  looked  a  lover's  lie, — 
I  feigned  indifference,  felt  despair. 


My  very  blood  leaped  up,  aware 
Of  her  free  step  and  morning  air; 
She  raised  her  head,  she  caught  my  eye — 

Could  she  have  guessed? 


I  faced  her  with  a  chilly  stare, 
With  words  so  common  and  so  bare! 
Her  whispering  skirts,  as  she  went  by, 
Swept  every  sense — a  thrilling  sigh ! 
Ah,  would  her  heart  have  heard  my  prayer 

Could  she  have  guessed? 
Elaine  Goodale 


READY    FOR   THE    RIDE— 1 795. 


Through  the  fresh  fairness  of  the  Spring  to  ride, 
As  in  the  old  days  when  he  rode  with  her. 

With  joy  of  Love  that  had  fond  Hope  to  bride, 
One  year  ago  had  made  her  pulses  stir. 


m 


(For  Love  and  Death  part  year  and  year  full  wide), 
Now  shall  no  wish  with  any  day  recur 

Through  the  fresh  fairness  of  the  Spring  to  ride, 
As  in  the  old  days  when  he  rode  with  her. 


No  ghost  there  lingers  of  the  smile  that  died 
On  the  sweet  pale  lip  where  his  kisses  were  — 

.    .    .    Yet  still  she  turns  her  delicate  head  aside, 
If  she  may  hear  him  come  with  jingling  spur — 

Through  the  fresh  fairness  of  the  Spring  to  ride, 
As  in  the  old  days  when  he  rode  with  her. 

H.  C.  Bunner. 


SHE  IS  NOT  BORN  OF  HIGH  DEGREE 


WHERE  HELEN  COMES 


Where  Helen  comes,  as  falls  the  dew. 
Where  Helen  comes  Peace  cometh  too! 
From  out  the  golden,  western  lands. 
White  lilies  blooming  in  her  hands, 
A  light  of  beauty  in  her  face, 
She  passeth  on  with  nameless  grace. 
Before  her  fly  the  shades  of  life — 
The  darkling,  wheeling  bats  of  strife — 
They  flee  her  very  garments'  stir, 
And  greater  fear  the  soul  of  her; 
For  hath  she  not  the  magic  touch — 
The  sesame  of  loving  much? 
Where'er  her  morning  footsteps  pass 
The  daisies  sing  unto  the  grass; 
Soft  whispers  full  of  praises  sweet 
Her  evening  presence  rise  to  greet, 
And  if  she  go  through  deserts  bare 
The  angels  of  the  heart  are  there: 
They  find  no  spot  to  weave  their  spells 
So  far  as  that  where  Helen  dwells! 
Where  Helen  comes,  as  falls  the  de' 
Where  Helen  comes  Peace  cometh  t< 
John  Jerome  Roo 


MY  MISTAKE. 

I  met  her  on  a  Pullman  car. 

In  section  number  nine; 
Each  eye  shone  like  a  morning  star, 

With  radiance  divine. 
So  when  I  placed  my  bags  and  traps 

In  section  number  ten, 
She  looked  so  tempting  'mid  her  wraps 

I  sought  her  face  again. 

She  glanced  at  me  with  roguish  pose, 

Yet  innocent  of  guile, 
Then  colored  like  a  blushing  rose, 

And  tried  to  hide  a  smile; 
The  sweet  confusion  but  enhanced 

Her  dainty  tint  of  pink, 
And  quite  by  accident  she  chanced 

The  nearest  eye  to  wink. 
When  she  refused  my  proffered  card 

With  scorn  and  proud  disdain, 
I  tried  my  best,  and  pleaded  hard 

My  error  to  explain. 

She  listened  to  my  mumblings  crude, 
Then  tossed  her  nose  on  high; 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "you'd  wink,  if  you'd 
A  cinder  in  your  eye." 


w 


THE  PROF.'S  LITTLE  GIRL. 

She  comes  to  the  Quad  when  her  Ladyship  pleases, 

And  loiters  at  will  in  the  sun  and  the  shade; 
As  free  from  the  burden  of  work  as  the  breezes 

That  play  with  the  bamboo  is  this  little  maid. 
The  tongues  of  the  bells,  as  they  beat  out  the  morning, 

Like  mad  in  their  echoing  cases  may  whirl 
Till  they  weary  of  calling  her, — all  their  sharp  warning 

Is  lost  on  the  ear  of  the  prof's  little  girl. 


With  a  scarred-over  heart  that  is  old  in  the  knowledge 

Of  all  the  manoeuvres  and  snares  of  the  Hall, 
Grown  wary  of  traps  in  its  four  years  at  college, 

And  able  at  last  to  keep  clear  of  them  all, — 
Oh,  what  am  I  doing  away  from  my  classes 

With  a  little  blue  eye  and  a  brown  little  curl? 
Ah  me !  fast  again,  and  each  precious  hour  passes 

In  slavery  sweet  to  the  prof's  little  girl. 


She  makes  me  a  horse,  and  I  mind  her  direction, 

Though  it  takes  me  o'er  many  a  Faculty  green ; 
I'm  pledged  to  the  cause  of  her  pussy's  protection 

From  ghouls  of  the  Lab  and  the  horrors  they  mean; 
I  pose  as  the  sire  of  a  draggled  rag  dolly 

Who  owns  the  astonishing  title  of  Pearl; — 
And  I  have  forgotten  that  all  this  is  folly, 

So  potent  the  charm  of  the  prof's  little  girl! 


IF  SEA  SPRAY  KISS  HER  FACE 


Yet,  spite  of  each  sacrifice  made  to  impress  her, 

She  smiles  on  my  rival.     Oh,  vengeance  I'd  gain! 
But  he  wears  the  same  name  as  my  major  professor, 

And  so  in  his  graces  I  have  to  remain ; 
And  when  she  trots  off  with  this  juvenile  lover, 

Leaving  me  and  the  cat  and  the  doll  in  a  whirl, 
It's  pitiful  truly  for  us  to  discover 

The  signs  of  her  sex  in  the  prof's  little  girl. 

Charles  Kellogg  Field. 


BEHIND  HER  FAN. 

Behind  her  fan  of  downy  fluff. 
Sewed  on  soft  saffron  satin  stuff. 

With  peacock  feathers,  purple-eyed, 

Caught  daintily  on  either  side, 
The  gay  coquette  displays  a  puff: 
Two  blue  eyes  peep  above  the  buff: 
Two  pinky  pouting  lips    .  .   enough! 
That  cough  means  surely  come  and  hide 
Behind  her  fan. 
The  barque  of  Hope  is  trim  and  tough, 
So  out  I  venture  on  the  rough, 

Uncertain  sea  of  girlish  pride. 

A  breeze!     I  tack  against  the  tide, — 
Capture  a  kiss  and  catch  a  cuff, — 

Behind  her  fan. 
Frank  Dempster  Sherman. 


BEHOLD   THE    DEEDS! 


I  would  that  all  men  my  hard  case  might  know; 

How  grievously  I  suffer  for  no  sin: 
I,  Adolphe  Culpepper  Ferguson,  for  lo! 

I,  of  my  landlady  am  locked  in, 
For  being  short  on  this  sad  Saturday, 
Nor  having  shekels  of  silver  wherewith  to  pay; 
She  has  turned  and  is  departed  with  my  key; 
Wherefore,  not  even  as  other  boarders  free, 

I  sing  (as  prisoners  to  their  dungeon  stones 
When  for  ten  days  they  expiate  a  spree)  : 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 


One  night  and  one  day  have  I  wept  my  woe; 

Nor  wot  I  when  the  morrow  doth  begin, 
If  I  shall  have  to  write  to  Briggs  &  Co., 
To  pray  them  to  advance  the  requisite  tin 
FejfJansom  of  their  salesman,  that  he  may 

Go  forth  as  other  boarders  go  alway 

-..  As  those  I  hear  now  flocking  from  their/^ej 
d  by  the  daughter  of  my  landlady 

ward.     This  day  for  all  my  mbs) 
bread  and  water  have  been  served  me. 
Id  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jo 


xk 


in. 

Miss  Amabel  Jones  is  musical,  and  so 

The  heart  of  the  young  he-boarder  doth  win. 
Playing  "The  Maiden  Prayer,"  adagio — 

That  fetcheth  him,  as  fetched  the  banco  skin 
The  innocent  rustic.     For  my  part,  I  pray: 
That  Badarjewska  maid  may  wait  for  aye 
Ere  sits  she  with  a  lover,  as  did  we 
Once  sit  together,  Amabel !     Can  it  be 

That  all  that  arduous  wooing  not  atones 
For  Saturday  shortness  of  trade  dollars  three? 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 


IV. 
Yea !  she  forgets  the  arm  was  wont  to  go 

Around  her  waist.     She  wears  a  buckle  whose  pin 
Galleth  the  crook  of  the  young  man's  elbow; 
/  forget  not,  for  I  that  youth  have  been. 
Smith  was  aforetime  the  Lothario  gay. 
Yet  once,  I  mind  me,  Smith  was  forced  to  stay 
Close  in  his  room.     Not  calm,  as  I,  was  he; 
But  his  noise  brought  no  pleasaunce,  verily. 

Small  ease  he  gat  of  playing  on  the  bones. 
Or  hammering  on  his  stove-pipe,  that  I  see. 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 

70 


Thou,  for  whose  fear  the  figurative  crow 

I  eat,  accursed  be  thou  and  all  thy  kin! 
Thee  will  I  show  up — yea,  up  will  I  shew 

Thy  too  thick  buckwheats,  and  thy  tea  too  thin. 
Ay !  here  I  dare  thee,  ready  for  the  fray ! 
Thou  dost  not  "keep  a  first-class  house,"  I  say! 
It  does  not  with  the  advertisements  agree. 
Thou  lodgest  a  Briton  with  a  puggaree, 

And  thou  hast  harboured  Jacobses  and  Cohns, 
Also  a  Mulligan.     Thus  denounce  I  thee ! 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 


Si 


Envoy. 


Boarders !  the  worst  I  have  not  told  to  ye : 
She  hath  stolen  my  trousers,  that  I  may  not  flee 

Privily  by  the  window.     Hence  these  groans, 
There  is  no  fleeing  in  a  robe  de  nuit. 

Behold  the  deeds  that  are  done  of  Mrs.  Jones! 

H.    C.    BUNNER. 


UNDER   THE   FLASH   OF   TAPERS 
BRIGHT. 


I  lost  my  heart  at  the  ball  to-night, 
Gazing  too  long  in  Mabel's  eyes 
Under  the  flash  of  the  tapers  bright. 

Because  earth  holds  no  fairer  sight 

Than  Mabel  breathing  her  low  replies, 
I  lost  my  heart  at  the  ball  to-night. 


Tenderly  tall  and  gracefully  slight, 

A  goddess,  she  charms  both  gay  and  wise 
Under  the  flash  of  the  tapers  bright. 

Arise,  faint  hope,  put  fear  to  flight, 

For  Mabel  must  know  ere  the  starlight  dies 
I  lost  my  heart  at  the  ball  to-night. 

Ye  stars  that  shine  so  pure  and  white. 
Grant  me  the  boon  that  fate  denies 
Under  the  flash  of  the  tapers  bright. 

Soften  her  soul  with  tender  light, 

Nor  let  her  regret  when  daylight  hies 
I  lost  my  heart  at  the  ball  to-night 
Under  the  flash  of  the  tapers  bright. 

S.  M.  Peck. 


UPON  THE  STAIR  I  SEE  MY  LADY  STAND 

(Rondel.) 

Upon  the  stair  I  see  my  lady  stand, 

Her  hair  is  like  the  gleaming  gold  of  dawn. 
And,  like  the  laughing  sunbeam  on  the  lawn. 

The  radiant  smile  by  which  her  lips  are  spanned. 

A  chiselled  marvel  seems  her  slender  hand 

What  time  she  waves  it  ere  my  steps  are  gone; 

Upon  the  stair  I  see  my  lady  stand. 

Her  hair  is  like  the  gleaming  gold  of  dawn. 


Through  the  green  covert  that  the  breeze  has  fanned 
She  fleets  as  graceful  as  the  flexile  fawn; 
She  is  the  star  to  which  my  soul  is  drawn 

When  shadows  drive  the  daylight  from  the  land. 

Upon  the  stair  I  see  my  lady  stand. 

Her  hair  is  like  the  gleaming  gold  of  dawn. 

Clinton  Scollard 


H 

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VfA 


w 


TO  LILLIAN'S  FIRST  GRAY  HAIR 

Weird  visitor,  what  dost  thou  there, 
Amid  gay  Lillian's  golden  tresses? 

A  traitor  to  the  reigning  fair, 

Thy  pallid  hue  thy  guilt  confesses. 


Still  at  her  shrine  love-poets  sing, 
Enamored  artists  ply  their  brushes; 
:ill  Cupid  comes  with  wanton  wing 
To  forge  his  arrows  in  her  blushes. 


E  S>  ■ 


vaunt,  I  say,  unwelcome  wight, 
>hjess  thou  comest  to  adore  her ; 
Fofteven  Time  forgets  his  flight 

nd  stands  with  ravished  eyes  before  h< 
Samuel  Minturn  Peck 

10/ 


THE  FOOTBALL  GIRL. 


Eyes  that  are  clear  as  the  sparkling  air 

When  the  frost-sprinkled  forests  flame. 
Cheeks  all  aglow  with  the  daintiest  red. 
Wind-tossed  hair  round  a  graceful  head, 
Bonny  and  blithesome  beyond  compare — 
Hail  to  the  Queen  of  the  Game! 


There  are  courage  and  hope  in  her  eyes  so  brown. 

And  she  raises  the  blue  flag  high; 
And  winning  or  losing,  till  all  is  done. 
She  is  true  to  her  colours  and  cheers  them  on. 
With  the  Yale  blue  violets  in  her  gown — 
Fair  symbol  of  loyalty. 

III. 
There  is  much  that  is  dear  in  the  victor's  prize — 

Honour,  applause,  and  fame, 
But  when  the  strife  ends  in  a  victory. 
The  first  and  the  best  which  the  winners  see 
Is  a  swift  flashing  signal  from  Beauty's  eyes — 

A  smile  from  the  Queen  of  the  Game. 


Then  here's  to  the  maid  who  begins  her  reign 
When  the  dead  leaves  race  and  whirl ! 

Hearty  and  loud  is  the  praise  I  bring, 

For  fairest  of  all  is  the  maid  I  sing. 

So  fill  up  your  glasses  and  pledge  again 
A  toast  to  the  Football  Girl! 

Raymond  W.  Walker. 


A  SEASIDE  FLIRTATION. 

With  sorrow  in  her  eyes  of  blue, 

With  trembling  hands,  she  slowly  penned  it- 
The  little  parting  billet-doux 

That  conscience  told  her  now  should  end  it. 
Those  tete-a-tetes  along  the  shore, 

Those  gipsyings  with  fern-filled  basket, 
Must  join  the  dear  delights  of  yore, 

And  only  live  in  memory's  casket. 


There  never  was  a  heart  like  Jack's: 

He  told  his  passion  in  his  glances. 
She  sealed  her  note  with  scented  wax, 

But  could  not  drown  her  dismal  fancies. 
When  he  should  read  his  suit  denied, 

So  long  the  theme  of  idle  gazers. 
She  pictured  him  a  suicide, 

And  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  razors  I 


At  last  she  slept — but  not  'til  dawn 

Had  blossomed  through  the  ocean  vapours. 
Jack  conned  her  missive  with  a  yawn 

When  he  had  read  the  morning  papers. 
He  gave  his  beard  a  languid  twirl, 

And  murmured,  as  he  sat  a-smoking, 
"Tear-stained — By  Jove! — poor  little  girl — 

I  thought  she  knew  that  I  was  joking!" 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck. 


THE  SKATER   BELLE 

Along  the  ice  I  see  her  fly 
With  moonlit  tresses  blown  awry, 
And  floating  from  her  twinkling  feet 
Are  wafted  sounds  as  silvery  sweet 
As  April  winds  when  May  is  nigh. 


Is  it  a  Naiad  coy  and  shy? 
Or  can  it  be  the  Lorelei 

Who  lures  me  with  her  rare  deceit? 

It  is  the  hour  for  magic  meet; 
Resist  the  spell,  'twere  vain  to  try. 


Her  beauty  thrills  the  earth  and  sky 
From  glowing  cheek  and  flashing  eye; 
And  as  she  wanders  fair  and  fleet 
The  spangled  branches  bend  to  greet 
And  wave  a  kiss  as  she  goes  by. 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck 


EVE'S  DAUGHTER. 

I  waited  in  the  little  sunny  room ; 

The  cool  breeze  waved  the  window-lace,  at  play. 
The  white  rose  on  the  porch  was  all  in  bloom, 

And  out  upon  the  bay 
I  watched  the  wheeling  sea-birds  go  and  come. 

"Such  an  old  friend, — she  would  not  make  me  stay 

While  she  bound  up  her  hair."     I  turned,  and  lo, 
Danae  in  her  shower !  and  fit  to  slay 

All  a  man's  hoarded  prudence  at  a  blow: 
Gold  hair,  that  streamed  away 

As  round  some  nymph  a  sunlit  fountain's  flow. 

"She  would  not  make  me  wait!" — but  well  I 
She  took  a  good  half-hour  to  loose  and  lay 

Those  locks  in  dazzling  disarrangement  so! 

E.  R.  Sill. 


Jtf 


A  CUP  AND  SAUCER   EPISODE. 

Twas   only   coffee,   yet   we   both    drank   deep, 

I  won't  deny  I  felt  intoxication; 
For  just  to  see  those  roguish  moon-eyes  peep 
Over  the  cup,  I  plunged  in  dissipation. 

She  raised  her  cup,  and  I  raised  also  mine ; 

She  gave  a  look,  as  if  "Now  are  you  ready?" 
Our  eyes  met  o'er  the  rims — it  seemed  like  wine. 

So  sweet,  divine,  bewitching,  almost  "heady." 

So  cup  on  cup!     The  salad,  too,  was  good. 

I  had  of  that  far  more  than  my  fair  rations. 
Yet  served  it  merely  as  an  interlude 

Between  the  music  of  the  cup  flirtations. 

And  then  to  have  her  say  'twas  all  my  fault! 

I  fairly  blushed,  and  gazed  down  at  my  cup. 
I  noticed,  though,  she  had  not  called  the  halt 

Until  the  pot  was  empty,  every  sup. 

Harvard  Advocate. 


FAINT  HEART. 

My  lady   fair 

Her  golden  hair 
Lets  fall  a-down  her  shoulder. 

I'd  steal  a  tress, — 

She's  no  redress, — 
Were  I  a  little  bolder. 


From  her  sweet  lip 

A  bee  might  sip, 
Sweeter  than  rose-leaf's  savor. 

A  kiss  I'd  take, — 

No  cry  she'd  make, — 
Were  I  a  little  braver. 


Her  neat,  trim  waist 

Just  suits  my  taste; 
Close  in  my  arms  I'd  fold  her. 

And  clasp  her  tight, — 

She'd  feel  no  fright, — 
Were  I  a  little  bolder. 


She's  waiting  now 

'Till  I  find  how 
To  ask  of  her  a  favor. 

She'll  be  my  wife, — 

I'd  stake  my  life, — 
When  I'm  a  little  braver. 

Dartmouth   Literary   Monthly. 


ALICIA'S    BONNET 


Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 

And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it. 


I  sat  beside  Alicia  at  the  play; 

Her  violet  eyes  with  tender  tears  were  wet 

(The  diamonds  in  her  ears  less  bright  than  they) 
For  pity  of  the  woes  of  Juliet: 
Alicia's  sighs  a  poet  might  have  set 

To  delicate  music  in  a  dainty  sonnet. 


Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 
And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it. 


And  yet  to  me  her  graceful  ready  words 

Sounded  like  tinkling  silver  bells  that  jangled, 

For  on  her  golden  hair  the  humming-birds 
Were  fixed  as  if  within  a  sunbeam  tangled, 
Their  quick  life  quenched,  their  tiny  bodies  mangled, 

Poor  pretty  birds  upon  Alicia's  bonnet. 


A  DAINTY  HAND 


Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 
And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it. 


Caught  in  a  net  of  delicate  creamy  crepe, 

The  dainty  captives  lay  there  dead  together ; 

No  dart  of  slender  bill,  no  fragile  shape 
Fluttering,  no  stir  of  any  radiant  feather: 
Alicia  looked  so  calm,  I  wondered  whether 

She  cared  if  birds  were  killed  to  trim  her  bonnet 


Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 
And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it. 

If  rubies  and  if  sapphires  have  a  spirit. 

Though  deep  they  lie  below  the  weight  of  earth 

If  emeralds  can  a  conscious  life  inherit 
And  beryls  rise  again  to  winged  birth 
Being  changed  to  birds  but  not  to  lesser  worth — 

Alicia's  golden  head  had  such  upon  it. 


Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet. 
And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it 


What  rapid  flight!     Each  one  a  winged  flame, 
Burning  with  brilliant  joy  of  life  and  all 

Delight  of  motion ;  to  and  fro  they  came, 
An  endless  dance,  a  fairy  festival ; 
Then  suddenly  I  saw  them  pause  and  fall. 

Slain  only  to  adorn  Alicia's  bonnet. 

Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 
And  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on  it. 

My  mind  came  back  from  the  Brazilian  land; 
For,  as  a  snowflake  falls  to  earth  beneath, 

Alicia's  hand  fell  lightly  on  my  hand ; 
And  yet  I  fancied  that  a  stain  of  death, 
Like  that  which  doomed  the  lady  of  Macbeth, 

Was  on  her  hand:  could  I  perhaps  have  won 

Last  night  Alicia  wore  a  Tuscan  bonnet, 
d  many  humming-birds  were  fastened  on 
Elisabeth  (Cavazza) 


MY   PLAYMATE 

The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet. 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 
My  playmate  left  her  home, 

And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine: 
What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine? 


Ofc 


She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May: 

The  constant  years  told  o'er 
Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns. 

But  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown, — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 


MY  LOVE 

Not  as  all  other  women  are 
Is  she  that  to  my  soul  is  dear; 
Her  glorious  fancies  come  from  far. 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star, 
And  yet  her  heart  is  ever  near. 


Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own, 
Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know; 
God  giveth  them  to  her  alone. 
And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone 
Wherewith  the  wind  may  choose  to  blow 


98 


Yet  in  herself  she  dwelleth  not, 
Although  no  home  were  half  so  fair; 
No  simplest  duty  is  forgot ; 
Life  hath  no  dim  and  lowly  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share. 

She  doeth  little  kindnesses, 
Which  most  leave  undone,  or  despise; 
For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 
And  giveth  happiness  or  peace, 
Is  low-esteemed  in  her  eyes. 

She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things, 
And,  though  she  seem  of  other  birth, 
Round  us  her  heart  intwines  and  clings. 
And  patiently  she  folds  her  wings 
To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 

Blessing  she  is ;  God  made  her  so, 
And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 
Fall  from  her  noiseless  as  the  snow, 
Nor  hath  she  ever  chanced  to  know 
That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless. 


IDLENESS 


AN  AFTERTHOUGHT. 


'Twas  in  the 

Amid  the 
She  with  her 

I  with  my 
I  still  can  see 

Flit  softly 
With  rapture 

To  view  h 


garden  chatting, 
mignonette, — 
snowy  tatting, 
cigarette, 
her  fingers 
in  and  out; 
memory  lingers 
er  lips  a-pout. 


A  happy  sunbeam  glancing 

Upon  a  wayward  curl 
Set  every  pulse  to  dancing; 

And  turned  my  brain  a-whirl; 
And  when  she  looked  up  shyly, 

I  could  not  help,  you  see. 
But  stoop  and  kiss  her  slyly, 

Behind  the  apple-tree. 

Strange  that  some  mote  forever 

Should  mar  the  rays  of  bliss! 
Though  conscious  I  had  never 

Yet  won  so  sweet  a  kiss, 
Alas!  the  act  of  plunder 

So  gracefully  she  bore, 
I  could  not  choose  but  wonder, 

Had  she  been  kissed  before? 

S.  M.  Peck. 


The  lamp's  clear  gleam  flits  up  the  stair 

I  linger  in  delicious  pain ; 
Ah,  in  that  chamber,  whose  rich  air 
To  breathe  in  thought  I  scarcely  dare, 

Thinks  she, — "Auf  wiedersehen!" 

'T  is  thirteen  years ;  once  more  I  press 
The  turf  that  silences  the  lane; 

I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 

I  smell  the  lilacs,  and  — ah,  yes, 
I  hear, — "Auf  wiedersehen!" 


Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art! 

The  English  words  had  seemed  too  fain, 
But  these — they  drew  us  heart  to  heart. 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart; 

She  said, — "Auf  tviedersehen!" 


GIRL 


She  studies  Hendrik  Ibsen  "to  cultivate  her  mind," 

And  reads  Shakespeare  and  Browning  through  and  through; 

Meanwhile  she  knits  her  brows — it  is  the  only  kind 
Of  fancy  work  this  modern  maid  can  do. 

Concordiensis. 


MAUD  MULLER 

Maud  Muller  on  a  summer's  day 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 


Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down. 


The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast, — 

A  wish  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 
Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid. 

And  asked  a  draught  from  the  spring  that 

flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 


She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

"Thanks!"    said    the    Judge;    "a    sweeter 

draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees; 

Then   talked   of   the  haying,    and  wondered 

whether 
The    cloud   in    the   west   would    bring    foul 

weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed:  "Ah  me! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be! 


And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret  pain, 
"Ah,  that  I  were  free  again! 

"Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day. 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein; 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 


Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned. 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 


Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again. 
Saying  only,  "It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge ! 

God  pity  them  both !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen. 

The  saddest  are  these:  "It  might  have  been!" 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 


'Twas  April  when  she  came  to  town; 

The  birds  had  come,  the  bees  were  swarm- 
-    ing 
Her  name,  she  said,  was  Doctor  Brown : 

I  saw  at  once  that  she  was  charming. 
She  took  a  cottage  tinted  green, 

Where  dewy  roses  loved  to  mingle; 
And  on  the  door,  next  day,  was  seen 

A  dainty  little  shingle. 


Her  hair  was  like  an  amber  wreath; 

Her  hat  was  darker,  to  enhance  it. 
The  violet  eyes  that  glowed  beneath 

Were  brighter  than  her  keenest  lancet. 
The  beauties  of  her  glove  and  gown 

The  sweetest  rhyme  would  fail  to  utter. 
Ere  she  had  been  a  day  in  town 

The  town  was  in  a  flutter. 


The  gallants  viewed  her  feet  and  hands. 

And  swore  they  never  saw  such  wee  things ; 
The  gossips  met  in  purring  bands 

And  tore  her  piecemeal  o'er  the  tea-things. 
The  former  drank  the  Doctor's  health 

With  clinking  cups,  the  gay  carousers; 
The  latter  watched  her  door  by  stealth. 

Just  like  so  many  mousers. 


But  Doctor  Bessie  went  her  way 

Unmindful  of  the  spiteful  cronies, 
And  drove  her  buggy  every  day 

Behind  a  dashing  pair  of  ponies. 
Her  flower-like  face  so  bright  she  bore, 

I  hoped  that  time  might  never  wilt  her. 
The  way  she  tripped  across  the  floor 

Was  better  than  a  philter. 


Her  patients  thronged  the  village  street; 

Her  snowy  slate  was  always  quite  full. 
Some  said  her  bitters  tasted  sweet; 

And  some  pronounced  her  pills  delightful. 
'Twas  strange — I  knew  not  what  it  meant — ■ 

She  seemed  a  nymph  from  Eldorado; 
Where'er  she  came,  where'er  she  went. 

Grief  lost  its  gloomy  shadow. 

Like  all  the  rest,  I  too  grew  ill ; 

My  aching  heart  there  was  no  quelling. 
I  tremble  at  my  doctor's  bill, — 

And  lo!  the  items  still  are  swelling. 
The  drugs  I've  drunk  you'd  weep  to  hear! 

They've  quite  enriched  the  fair  concocter. 
And  I'm  a  ruined  man,  I  fear, 

Unless — I  wed  the  Doctor ! 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck 


WIl 


EDITH. 

Edith,  the  silent  stars  are  coldly  gleaming, 

The  night  wind  moans,  the  leafless  trees  are  still. 

Edith,  there  is  a  life  beyond  this  seeming, 
So  sleeps  the  ice-clad  lake  beneath  thy  hill. 

So  silent  beats  the  pulse  of  thy  pure  heart, 

So  shines  the  thought  of  thy  unquestioned  eyes. 

O  life!  why  wert  thou  helpless  in  thy  art? 

O  loveliness!  why  seem'st  thou  but  surprise? 

Edith,  the  streamlets  laugh  to  leap  again ; 

There  is  a  spring  to  which  life's  pulses  fly; 
And  hopes  that  are  not  all  the  sport  of  pain, 

Like  lustres  in  the  veil  of  that  gray  eye. 

They  say  the  thankless  stars  have  answering  vision, 
That  courage  sings  from  out  the  frost-bound  ways ; 

Edith,  I  grant  that  olden  time's  decision — 
Thy  beauty  paints  with  gold  the  icy  rays. 


AT  THE   BALL 

They  bow  at  the  end  of  the  "Lancers, 
And  turn  to  the  fairest  of  all; — 

"Shall  we  sue  in  vain  for  a  ballad?" 
They  say  to  the  Belle  of  the  Ball. 


Then  a  hush  falls  over  the  dancers, — 
A  hush  they  know  not  why; 

And  she  seems  as  one  who  is  dreaming 
As  she  sweeps  them  slowly  by. 

The  smile  so  lately  wreathing 

Her  lips  of  deepest  red 
Is  gone,  and  the  feverish  glitter 

That  flashed  from  her  eyes  has  fled. 

Around  her  witching  dimples, 
Where  the  ruby  current  flows, 

They  note  with  silent  wonder 
The  lily  banish  the  rose. 


ii*tf3  Gi.hk.  L:;riitv 


AT  THE  PLAY 


Then  over  the  harp-strings  bending. 

She  sings  an  old  love-song, 
And  the  dancers  gather  around  her, 

A  gay  and  thoughtless  throng. 

"What  a  wonderful  depth  of  feeling!" 
They  whisper,  and  stare  with  surprise; 

She  sings,  unheeding  the  murmur, 
With  a  far-away  look  in  her  eyes. 

She  sees  not  the  dazzling  lustres, 
She  sees  not  the  crowd  looking  on; 

And  the  song  flows  on  as  plaintive 
As  the  song  of  the  dying  swan. 

She  thinks  of  a  gallant  trooper 
Who  sailed  to  a  foreign  strand; 

Her  eyes  are  dim  for  a  lover 
Who  fell  in  a  distant  land. 


« 


A   PORTRAIT. 


A  slim,  young  girl,  in  lilac  quaintly  dressed; 

A  mammoth  bonnet,  lilac  like  the  gown, 

Hangs  from  her  arm  by  wide,  white  strings,  the  crown 

Wreathed  round  with  lilac  blooms ;  and  on  her  breast 

A  cluster;  lips  still  smiling  at  some  jest 

Just  uttered,  while  the  gay,  gray  eyes  half  frown 
Upon  the  lips'  conceit;  hair,  wind-blown,  brown 

Where  shadows  stray,  gold  where  the  sunbeams  rest. 


Ah !  lilac  lady,  step  from  your  gold  frame. 
Between  that  starched  old  Bishop  and  the  dame 

In  awe-inspiring  ruff.    We'll  brave  their  ire 
And  trip  a  minuet.     You  will  not? — Fie! 
Those  mocking  lips  half  make  me  wish  that  I, 

Her  grandson,  might  have  been  my  own  grandsire. 

Trinity  Tablet. 


A  WABAN  RIPPLE. 


ANONYMOUS. 

The  Wellesley  girls  say. 
As  at  vespers  they  pray: 

"Help  us  good  maids  to  be; 
Give  us  patience  to  wait 
Till  some  subsequent  date: 

World  without  men — ah  me!" 

— Cap  and  Gown. 


A  FAIR  ATTORNEY 


Alas!  the  world  has  gone  awry 

Since  Cousin  Lillian  entered  college, 
For  she  has  grown  so  learned  I 

Oft  tremble  at  her  wondrous  knowledge. 
Whene'er  I  dare  to  woo  her  now 

She  frowns  that  I  should  so  annoy  her. 
And  then  proclaims,  with  lofty  brow. 

Her  mission  is  to  be  a  lawyer. 

Life  glides  no  more  on  golden  wings, 

A  sunny  waif  from  Eldorado; 
I've  learned  how  true  the  poet  sings. 

That  coming  sorrow  casts  its  shadow. 
When  tutti-frutti  lost  its  spell, 

I  felt  some  hidden  grief  impended; 
When  she  declined  a  caramel, 

I  knew  my  rosy  dream  had  ended. 


She  paints  no  more  on  china  plaques, 

With  tints  that  would  have  crazed  Murillo, 
Strange  birds  that  never  plumed  their  backs 

When  Father  Noah  braved  the  billow. 
Her  fancy  limns,  with  brighter  brush. 

The  splendid  triumphs  that  await  her, 
When,  in  the  court,  a  breathless  hush 

Gives  homage  to  the  keen  debater. 

'Tis  sad  to  meet  such  crushing  noes 

From  eyes  as  blue  as  Scottish  heather; 
'Tis  sad  a  maid  with  cheeks  of  rose 

Should  have  her  heart  bound  up  in  leather. 
'Tis  sad  to  keep  one's  passion  pent. 

Though  Pallas'  arms  the  Fair  environ 
But  worse  to  have  her  quoting  Kent 

When  one  is  fondly  breathing  Byron. 


When  Lillian's  licensed  at  the  law 

Her  fame,  be  sure,  will  live  forever; 
No  barrister  will  pick  a  flaw 

In  logic  so  extremely  clever. 
The  sheriff  will  forget  his  nap 

To  feast  upon  the  lovely  vision. 
And  e'en  the  Judge  will  set  his  cap 

At  her,  and  dream  of  love  Elysian. 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck 


UNDER  THE  MISTLETOE. 

She  stood  beneath  the  mistletoe 

That  hung  above  the  door. 
Quite  conscious  of  the  sprig  above. 

Revered  by  maids  of  yore. 
A  timid  longing  filled  her  heart; 

Her  pulses  throbbed  with  heat; 
He  sprang  to  where  the  fair  girl  stood. 

"May  I — just  one — my  sweet?" 
He  asked  his  love,  who  tossed  her  head, 
"Just  do  it — if — you  dare!"  she  said. 


He  sat  before  the  fireplace 

Down  at  the  club  that  night. 
"She  loves  me  not,"  he  hotly  said, 

"Therefore  she  did  but  right!" 
She  sat  alone  within  her  room. 

And  with  her  finger-tips 
She  held  his  picture  to  her  heart. 

Then  pressed  it  to  her  lips. 
My  loved  one!"  sobbed  she,  "if  you  carei 
ou  sure  would  have — would  have — dar 

George  Francis  Sh 


A  RHYME  FOR  PRISCILLA. 

Dear  Priscilla,  quaint,  and  very 

Like  a  modern  Puritan, 
Is  a  modest,  literary, 

Merry  young  American; 
Horace  she  has  read,  and  Bion 

Is  her  favourite  in  Greek ; 
Shakespeare  is  a  mighty  lion 

In  whose  den  she  dares  but  peek; 
Him  she  leaves  to  some  sage  Daniel, 

Since  of  lions  she's  afraid — 
She  prefers  a  playful  spaniel, 

Such  as  Herrick  or  as  Praed; 
And  it's  not  a  bit  satiric 

To  confess  her  fancy  goes 
From  the  epic  to  a  lyric 

On  a  rose. 

Wise  Priscilla,  dilettante, 

With  a  sentimental  mind, 
Doesn't  deign  to  dip  in  Dante, 

And  to  Milton  isn't  kind; 
L' Allegro,  II  Penseroso 

Have  some  merits,  she  will  grant. 
All  the  rest  is  only  so-so- — 

Enter  Paradise  she  can't! 
She  might  make  a  charming  angel 

(And  she  will  if  she  is  good, 
But  it's  doubtful  if  the  change'll 

Make  the  Epic  understood)  ; 
Honey-suckling,  like  a  bee  she 

Goes  and  pillages  his  sweets, 
And  it's  plain  enough  to  see  she 

Worships  Keats. 


Gay  Priscilla — just  the  person 

For  the  Locker  whom  she  loves; 
What  a  captivating  verse  on 

Her  neat-fitting  gowns  or  gloves 
He  could  write  in  catching  measure, 

Setting  all  the  heart  astir! 
And  to  Aldrich  what  a  pleasure 

It  would  be  to  sing  of  her — 
He,  whose  perfect  songs  have  won  her 

Lips  to  quote  them  day  by  day. 
She  repeats  the  rhymes  of  Bunner 

In  a  fascinating  way, 
And  you'll  often  find  her  lost  in — 

She  has  reveries  at  times — 
Some  delightful  one  of  Austin 

Dobson's  rhymes. 


0  Priscilla,  sweet  Priscilla, 
Writing  of  you  makes  me  think. 

As  I  burn  my  brown  Manila 

And  immortalise  my  ink, 
How  well  satisfied  these  poets 

Ought  to  be  with  what  they  do 
When,  especially,  they  know  it's 

Read  by  such  a  girl  as  you: 

1  who  sing  of  you  would  marry 

Just  the  kind  of  girl  you  are — 
One  who  doesn't  care  to  carry 

Her  poetic  taste  too  far — 
One  whose  fancy  is  a  bright  one, 

Who  is  fond  of  poems  fine, 
And  appreciates  a  light  one 

Such  as  mine. 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman. 


ONE  SATURDAY 

I  never  had  a  happier  time. 

And  I  am  forty-three, 
Than  one  midsummer  afternoon, 

When  it  was  May  with  me : 
Life's  fragrant  May, 
And  Saturday, 
And  you  came  out  with  me  to  play ; 
And  up  and  down  the  garden  walks, 

Among  the  flowering  beans, 
We  proudly  walked  and  tossed  our  heads 

And  played  that  we  were  queens. 


Thrice  prudent  sovereigns,  we  made 

The  diadems  we  wore, 
And  fashioned  for  our  royal  hands 

The  sceptres  which  they  bore; 
But  good  Queen  Bess 
Had  surely  less 
Than  we,  of  proud  self-consciousness. 
While  wreaths  of  honeysuckle  hung 

Around  your  rosy  neck, 
And  tufts  of  marigold  looped  up 

My  gown,  a  "gingham  check." 


' 


1 


-■ .  Jf,~ 


|U 


IW.'SJ    J    "il.%-1  i   k>K.>.|.s.i) 


DOLLIE 


Our  chosen  land  was  parted  out, 

Like  Israel's,  by  lot; 
My  kingdom,  from  the  garden  wall 

Reached  to  the  strawberry  plot: 
The  onion-bed, 
The  beet-tops  red. 
The  corn  which  waved  above  my  head. 
The  gooseberry  bushes,  hung  with  fruit, 

The  wandering  melon-vine. 
The  carrots  and  the  cabbages, 

All,  all  of  them,  were  mine! 


Beneath  the  cherry-tree  was  placed 

Your  throne,  a  broken  chair ; 
Your  realm  was  narrower  than  mine, 

But  it  was  twice  as  fair: 
Tall  hollyhocks, 
And  purple  phlox, 
And  time-observing  four-o'clocks. 
Blue  lavender,  and  candytuft. 

And  pink  and  white  sweet  peas, 
Your  loyal  subjects,  waved  their  heads 

In  every  passing  breeze. 


ie  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks; 
Thy  step  is  as  the  wind,  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 

Thine  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  unpresse 
re  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast 
holy  peace  that  fills  the  air 
those  calm  solitudes  is  there. 

W.   C.   BRYAN! 


HELEN 

The  autumn  seems  to  cry  for  thee, 
Best  lover  of  the  autumn  days! 

Each  scarlet-tipped  and  wine-red  tree. 
Each  russet  branch  and  branch  of  gold, 

Gleams  through  its  veil  of  shimmering  haze. 
And  seeks  thee  as  they  sought  of  old: 

For  all  the  glory  of  their  dress, 

They  wear  a  look  of  wistfulness. 

In  every  wood  I  see  thee  stand. 

The  ruddy  boughs  above  thy  head, 

And  heaped  in  either  slender  hand 
The  frosted  white  and  amber  ferns, 

The  sumach's  deep,  resplendent  red, 
Which  like  a  fiery  feather  burns. 

And,  over  all,  thy  happy  eyes, 

Shining  as  clear  as  autumn  skies. 

■ 

I  hear  thy  call  upon  the  breeze. 

Gay  as  the  dancing  wind,  and  sweet. 

And,  underneath  the  radiant  trees, 
O'er  lichens  gray  and  darkling  moss. 

Follow  the  trace  of  those  light  feet 
Which  never  were  at  fault  or  loss, 

But,  by  some  forest  instinct  led, 

Knew  where  to  turn  and  how  to  tread. 


Where  art  thou,  comrade  true  and  tried? 

The  woodlands  call  for  thee  in  vain. 
And  sadly  burns  the  autumn-tide 

Before  my  eyes,  made  dim  and  blind 
By  blurring,  puzzling  mists  of  pain. 

I  look  before,  I  look  behind ; 
Beauty  and  loss  seem  everywhere. 
And  grief  and  glory  fill  the  air. 

Already,  in  these  few  short  weeks, 
A  hundred  things  I  leave  unsaid, 

Because  there  is  no  voice  that  speaks 
In  answer,  and  no  listening  ear, 

No  one  to  care  now  thou  art  dead! 

And  month  by  month,  and  year  by  year, 

I  shall  but  miss  thee  more,  and  go 

With  half  my  thought  untold,  I  know. 

I  do  not  think  thou  hast  forgot, 

I  know  that  I  shall  not  forget. 
And  some  day,  glad,  but  wondering  not, 

We  two  shall  meet,  and,  face  to  face, 
In  still,  fair  fields  unseen  as  yet, 

Shall  talk  of  each  old  time  and  place, 
And  smile  at  pain  interpreted 
By  wisdom  learned  since  we  were  dead. 
"Susan  Coolidge" 


Fair  Gertrude  lives  at  Farmington, 

Perhaps  you've  seen  her  there; 
Her  eyes  delight  in  laughing  light, 

Let  gods  describe  her  hair; 
Her  figure — well,  grave  Juno  ne'er 

Had  half  the  supple  grace 
Of  Gertrude  fair  of  Farmington — 

Perhaps  you  know  that  place? 

Beneath  her  lips  there  gleam  two  rows 

Of  greed-inspiring  pearls; 
Such  rows  of  teeth  the  gods  bequeath 

To  but  their  choicest  girls. 
For  other  things  at  Farmington 

I  do  not  care  a  rap, 
Although  it  is  a  lovely  plao 

I've  seen  it  (on  the  map) 


THE  UNATTAINABLE. 

Tom's  album  was  filled  with  the  pictures  of  belles 

Who  had  captured  his  manly  heart. 
From  the  fairy  who  danced  for  the  front-row  swells 

To  the  maiden  who  tooled  her  cart; 
But  one  face  as  fair  as  a  cloudless  dawn 

Caught  my  eye,  and  I  said,  "Who's  this?" 
"Oh,  that,"  he  replied,  with  a  skilful  yawn, 

"Is  the  girl  I  couldn't  kiss." 

Her  face  was  the  best  in  the  book,  no  doubt, 

But  I  hastily  turned  the  leaf, 
For  my  friend  had  let  his  cigar  go  out. 

And  I  knew  I  had  bared  his  grief: 
For  caresses  we  win  and  smiles  we  gain 

Yield  only  a  transient  bliss, 
And  we're  all  of  us  prone  to  sigh  in  vain 

For  "the  girl  we  couldn't  kiss." 

Harry  Romaine. 
147 


^ 


\ 


MY  LADY  ON  THE  LINKS 


A  BALLAD  OF  DOROTHY. 


It's  "Dorothy!     Where's  Dorothy?" 

From  morn  to  even  fall, 
There's  not  a  lad  on  Cowslip  Farm 

Who  joins  not  in  the  call. 
It's  Dolly  here  and  Dolly  there, 

Where  can  the  maiden  be? 
No  wench  in  all  the  countryside's 

So  fine  as  Dorothy. 

With  tucked-up  gown  and  shining  pail. 

Before  the  day  is  bright, 
Down  dewy  lanes  she  singing  goes 

Among  the  hawthorns  white. 
Perchance  her  roses  need  her  care, 

She  tends  them  faithfully. 
There's  not  a  rose  in  all  the  world 

As  fresh  and  sweet  as  she! 

With  morning  sunshine  in  her  hair 

A-churning  Dolly  stands; 
Oh,  happy  churn,  I  envy  it, 

Held  close  between   her  hands; 
And  when  the  crescent  moon  hangs  brigB 

Athwart  the  soft  night  sky, 
Down  shady  paths  we  strolling  go, 

Just  Dorothy  and  I. 

As  true  of  heart  as  sweet  of  face,. 

With  gay  and  girlish  air, 
The  painted  belles  of  citydom 
Are  not  a  whit  as  fair, 
ne  Michaelmas  the  parish  chimes 
Will  ring  out  merrily. 

|is  the  bride  I  lead  to  church? 
by,  who  but  Dorothy? 

Williams  Literary  Monthly! 

149 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  SUMMER. 


A  little  maiden  with  golden  curls 
Slipped  into  my  life  one  April  day, 
Treading  the  grasses  with  merry  feet, 
Her  arms  full  of  cowslips  and  violets  sweet 
With  a  circlet  of  green  on  her  rippling  curls 
And  sang  to  me  on  my  way. 


Through  all  the  springtime  I  watched  her  grow 
More  beautiful  daily,  till  stately  and  tall, 
'Mid  gardens  of  roses  and  lilies,  in  June, 
She  danced  to  the  sound  of  the  birds'  sweet  tune, 
And  richer  and  fuller  her  voice  would  flow 
Than  the  songs  of  the  waterfall. 


And  in  the  Autumn  at  harvest  time, 
She  passed  through  the  orchards  and  shocks  of  corn, 
All  wreathed  in  yellow  and  red  and  brown, 
Bearing  fruit  in  a  fold  of  her  russet  gown. 
By  presses  flowing  with  rich  new  wine, — 
To  the  sound  of  the  hunter's  horn. 


I 


ts 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  BALLSTON. 
After  Praed  (P). 

In  Ballston — once  a  famous  spot, 

Ere  Saratoga  came  in  fashion — 
I  had  a  transient  fit  of  what 

The  poets  call  the  "tender  passion"; 
In  short,  when  I  was  young  and  gay, 

And  Fancy  held  the  throne  of  Reason, 
I  fell  in  love  with  Julia  May, 

The  reigning  beauty  of  the  season. 

Her  eyes  were  blue,  and  such  a  pair ! 

No  star  in  heaven  was  ever  brighter; 
Her  skin  was  most  divinely  fair; 

I  never  saw  a  shoulder  whiter. 
And  there  was  something  in  her  form 

(Juste  em-bon-poini,  I  think  they  term  it) 
That  really  was  enough  to  warm 

The  icy  bosom  of  a  hermit! 

In  sooth,  she  was  a  witching  girl, 

And  even  women  called  her  pretty, 
Who  saw  her  in  the  waltz's  whirl, 

Beneath  the  glare  of  spermaceti; 
Or  if  they  carped — -as  Candor  must 

When  wounded  pride  and  envy  rankle — 
'Twas  only  that  so  full  a  bust 

Should  heave  above  so  trim  an  ankle! 


154 


One  eve,  remote  from  festive  mirth, 

We  talked  of  Nature  and  her  treasures. 
I  said:    "Of  all  the  joys  of  earth, 

Pray  name  the  sweetest  of  her  pleasures.  ' 
She  gazed  with  rapture  at  the  moon 

That  struggled  through  the  spreading  beeches 
And  answered  thus:    "A  grove — at  noon — 

A  friend — and  lots  of  cream  and  peaches!" 

I  spoke  of  trees — the  stately  oak 

That  stands  the  forest's  royal  leader; 
The  whispering  pine;   and  then   I  spoke 

Of  Lebanon's  imperial  cedar; 
The  maple  of  our  colder  clime; 

The  elm,   with  branches   intermeeting. 
She  thought  the  palm  must  be  sublime, 

And — dates  were  very  luscious  eating! 

I  talked  about  the  sea  and  sky, 

And  spoke  with  something  like  emotion. 
Of  countless  pearly  gems  that  lie 

Ungathered  by  the  sounding  ocean. 
She  smiled,  and  said  (was  it  in  jest?) 

Of  all  the  shells  that  Nature  boasted 
She  thought  that  oysters  were  the  best — 

"And,  dearest,  don't  you  love  'em  roasted?" 


AFTERNOON  TEA 


TOUJOURS  AMOUR. 

Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin, 
At  what  age  does  Love  begin? 
Your  blue  eyes  have  scarcely  seen 
Summers  three,  my  fairy  queen; 
But  a  miracle  of  sweets, 
Soft  approaches,  sly  retreats, 
Show  the  little  Archer  there. 
Hidden  in  your  pretty  hair; 
When  didst  learn  a  heart  to  win? 
Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin! 


"Oh!"  the  rosy  lips  reply, 
"I  can't  tell  you  if  I  try. 

'Tis  so  long  I  can't  remember; 
Ask  some  younger  lass  than  I!" 


Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face, 
Do  your  heart  and  head  keep  pace? 
When  does  hoary  Love  expire, 
When  do  frosts  put  out  the  fire? 
Can  its  embers  burn  below 
All  that  chill  December  snow? 
Care  you  still  soft  hands  to  press, 
Bonny  heads  to  smooth  and  bless? 
When  does  Love  give  up  the  chase? 
Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face! 


"Ah!"  the  wise  old  lips  reply, 

"Youth  may  pass  and  strength  may  die; 
But  of  Love  I  can't  foretoken: 

Ask  some  older  sage  than  I!" 


S^ 


